The Complete Ingo Chronicles: Ingo, The Tide Knot, The Deep, The Crossing of Ingo, Stormswept. Helen Dunmore

going to the Lost Islands tonight.”

      “Why?”

      “There’s a Gathering. Look over there.”

      “It’s too dark.”

      “Look, Sapphire. Open your eyes.”

      I peer through the deep dark velvet of the water. Yes, there are shapes and shadows, shifting with the pull of the currents. There’s a group of them, close together. A shoal of fish swimming to their feeding grounds, maybe. But they’re too big for fish, surely; they’re as long as – as tall as—

      “Mer, Faro! Look! They’re Mer!”

      I’m seeing the Mer at last. Faro’s people. The curtain that has hidden them from me every time I’ve visited Ingo has lifted at last. They are moving fast, in a group of twenty or so. They’re a long way off, and they don’t notice us. They seem to shimmer as they swim, as if they’re covered in fish scales. But I know from Faro and his sister Elvira that the Mer aren’t really covered in scales at all. That’s for fairy stories where mermaids bask on rocks, combing their hair and singing to sailors. The real Mer are not like that. They’re more powerful, more complicated and much, much more real. I blink, and the Mer have gone.

      “What were they wearing, Faro? What’s all that shiny stuff?”

      “Mother-of-pearl on cloaks of net, I should think. That’s what people generally wear to a Gathering when it’s moonlight.”

      “How beautiful. Have you got a cloak like that?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Have you got one? A cloak like that? In your wardrobe or whatever?”

      “I’m not going to the Gathering tonight, so why would I have a cloak? I’d make one if I was going.”

      “Do you mean that you make a new cloak every time there’s a party? I mean, a Gathering.”

      “Of course. They take days and days to make. The patterns are complicated.”

      “Then why don’t you keep them? You could have a beautiful collection of cloaks.”

      “Collection!” says Faro with scorn, then he lowers his voice as if what he’s saying is dangerous and not to be overheard.“Listen, Sapphire. A long time ago, some of the Mer started to keep things. They grew so proud of what they had collected that they became rivals, then enemies. It nearly brought us to war.”

      “Do the Mer fight wars?” I ask in surprise. Faro has always given me the impression that Mer life is peaceful.

      “We almost fought a war then. We were ready to kill each other.”

      “We have wars all the time. I’ve seen them on TV.”

      “Is TV real?” asks Faro curiously. “I thought it was stories humans make up for one another.”

      “The news is real.”

      “It’s good to know about the human world,” says Faro with decision. “Some Mer say that we should keep right away from it, but I think how you live is interesting.”

      “You make me feel as if I’m in a zoo, Faro!”

      “Zoos! How can you humans keep creatures trapped in cages for pleasure when they are begging to be released?”

      “Humans don’t hear them. We can’t talk to animals, you know.”

      “I know. I’m sorry, Sapphire.”

      Faro presses my hand in sympathy. If, like him, you can talk to whales and dolphins and sea urchins and sea eagles, then no wonder he thinks human life is a bit limited…

      This seems like the most important talk I’ve ever had with Faro. It’s the first time he’s admitted that things have ever been less than perfect in Ingo. In the quiet darkness it’s easier to speak openly, and not to start arguing—

      “I wish I could see those islands,” I tell him.

      “We can go now if you like?”

      “Really?”

      “Yes. I can’t take you to the Gathering. It’s too early for that, and the Mer wouldn’t like to see you there. But we could go to one of the other islands.”

      We swim out of our hollow. There are currents everywhere – not as powerful as the one we rode on, but little flickering currents that wash over our skin. The light is stronger now, and as we swim along the sea bed I realise that it’s because the water is growing shallower.

      “I don’t want to go back into the Air,” I say in alarm. I don’t want to burst through the surface of the water, only to find myself marooned on some strange island miles and miles from Cornwall.

      “We’re not leaving Ingo. But we’re coming to the islands, Sapphire. Look ahead.”

      It’s strange – like coming inshore on a boat, except that the land where we’re about to beach is underwater, lit by moonlight falling through water. There are the rocks. There’s the beach. A long wall juts out. It must have been the harbour wall once. On the drowned shore there are the crumbled remains of buildings which must have been cottages. Their doorways are empty. I suppose the doors have rotted away. The empty window sockets make the cottages look as if they have got hungry, staring eyes. Instead of slate tiles on the roofs, there’s seaweed waving gently in the current.

      It all makes me shiver. I’m afraid of what might come out of those empty doorways: a scuttling family of crabs, or a conger eel, or a jellyfish with long, searching tentacles. I’m not afraid of any of these creatures usually, but they shouldn’t be here, in human houses. There should be fire here, the smell of cooking and the sounds of human voices and laughter. I turn away.

      “Don’t you like it?” Faro asks.

      I shake my head, and my hair floats across my face like seaweed, hiding it. I’m glad that Faro can’t see my expression. I don’t want to look any more, but the drowned village seems to be casting a spell on me. I stare at the little cobbled road leading up behind the cottages, and the strong, square tower of what must have been the village church, long ago. A weathercock still stands there. I wonder if it still turns from side to side when the tide moves. Does the weathercock still think that the wind’s blowing it? It is all so empty, so sad and so silent. Like a graveyard.

      “We come on pilgrimage here,” says Faro.

      “Pilgrimage?”

      “Yes. Pilgrims come from far away to see the power of what Ingo has done here. Where there was land, now there is water.”

      “Great,” I say bitterly. “I hope they enjoy it.”

      “You’re angry,” says Faro, “but you shouldn’t be. In Holland they force the sea back, and you say they are brilliant. Here the sea rises and the land falls, and you think it’s terrible. But it’s just what happens. Like the tide. At low tide you can walk safely in a place where six hours later you would drown.”

      “But it’s not tides that did this. It’s something much more powerful. A whole island has drowned, Faro! How many villages were there?”

      “I don’t know. Many, I think.”

      “And how many people drowned?” I say, half to myself. I may have Mer blood in me, but no Mer blood could be strong enough to make me happy here. “It’s so desolate,” I go on, trying to make Faro understand. “This island wasn’t part of Ingo and it didn’t want to be. It isn’t really a part of Ingo now. It’s just dead.”

      “You’re wrong,” says Faro passionately. “Every year it’s more alive. Look at how much is growing there now. Look how rich the water is.” I can’t bear to argue with him, and besides, I know we are never going to agree. With a part of myself I see what Faro sees: the beauty of the seaweed waving above